We pick pebbles from the pastbricks after bricks,what time makes of things.We build dreams of it, press through doorswe become memories ofand time keeps nibbling at itself in regeneration until each room is experience,but the door is a waking light so we take the stairs, each at a time,the blurring line of life along the climb, each step a note on a piano, each stone a block in this dream, till it ends in silenceand we begin in breathswaking from depths like one new wordin that house built of songswe still dance here.

Seabird

the seabird circles the sea drawing the map of shadow, the boat on the rhythm of the crest and troughthe crest and trough of the circle going on and on along the rings of ripples you can’t break us fromthe circle drawn by the constant force of life, the shadow gliding with the rise and fall like taking life’s turns in known concentric circles we all lost our ways,trapped in the rings of ripples breaking off at the end, andthe boat keeps moving on, floating along the circles with increasing radius, the length of time we hanged on, aware of what it would mean to be donenot knowing how to be the bird owning the sky of our sea.

The Animal in the Room

The animal in the room stayed afar like in the close range of promise. You stayed like the imposition of the light that informs my shadow and how much of me is defined by love,longings; all that made us the expression to which our tongue is made; the animal becoming the conversation of space, a bidding possibility or what is leftin-between the links of days and daysand I’m begging these seconds to stop saying, longing, longing, as if I’d own it too, the slow arm of the clock, how it comes alive,laughter, you. And when I forgethow close you are, when this patience is lost and the logic of the beauty concealed and the beauty revealed is tot